“Go for inspan de waggin. Ordered down to Algoa Bay for bring up de white men.”
“Then we shall probably meet on the road,” said Considine, “for I am going to the same place.” As he spoke, they came to a point where the road forked. The Hottentot, with a sulky “Good-day,” took that path which led towards Jan Smit’s cattle kraal, while Considine followed the other and rejoined his waggons. The two friends mounted their horses, the drivers set the ox-teams in motion, and the huge waggons lumbered slowly over the karroo towards the rising sun.
Chapter Three.
Describes the somewhat Curious Beginning of Settler-Life in South Africa.
Leaping over time and space with that hilarious mental bound which is so easy and enjoyable to writers and readers, let us fold our wings at early morn in the month of May, and drop down on the heights in the vicinity of Algoa Bay.
The general aspect of the bay is sandy and sterile. On its blue waters many large vessels lie at anchor. Some of them are trim, with furled sails and squared yards, as if they had been there for a considerable time. Others have sails and spars loose and awry, as if they had just arrived. From these latter many an emigrant eye is turned wistfully on the shore. The rising ground on which we stand is crowned by a little fortress, or fortified barrack, styled Fort Frederick, around which are the marquees of the officers of the 72nd regiment. Below, on the range of sandhills which fringe the beach, are pitched a multitude of canvas tents, and among these upwards of a thousand men, women, and children are in busy motion. There are only one or two small wooden houses visible, and three thatched cottages. Down at the water’s edge, and deep in the surf, crowds of soldiers, civilians, and half-naked natives are busy hauling on the ropes attached to the large surfboats, which are covered to overflowing with human beings. Those in the boats, as well as those in the surf and on the beach, are in a state of high excitement, and more or less demonstrative, while the seamen from a neighbouring sloop of war, who manage the boats, shout to the people at the ropes. The replies of these are drowned, ever and anon, by the roar of falling “rollers.” These rollers, or great waves, calm though the morning be, come in with giant force from the mighty sea. They are the mere termination of the ocean-swell.
Reader, the scene before you marks an epoch of vast importance in South African history. It is the “landing of the British Settlers” in the year 1820. The spot is that on which now stands the flourishing commercial town of Port Elizabeth, styled, not inappropriately, by its inhabitants, the “Liverpool of South Africa.”
Standing near the stern of one of the surf-boats, his strong right hand grasping the gunwale, and his grave eyes fixed on the shore, one of the exiles from Scotland lifted his voice that day and said—